Page 77 of Made for Mayhem

“Ask him for the purple one.” Lori stole a handful of chips from the bag still sitting on the end of the table, the last remnants from our burger night. “He has that one.”

“Mom.” Beckett sounded more than a little exasperated as he passed it over.

I didn’t have a purple unicorn in my hand—mine was teal—but I hated losing, no matter the game.

A soft thump and a squeal from the hallway had Beckett glancing up, and I followed his gaze.

“About time,” he said as Jace stepped out of the laundry room. His shaggy hair stuck out from under his hoodie, and the bored expression he usually wore had more than a few cracks in it.

Right behind him was Junie in purple unicorn pajamas, Piggie Smalls in her arms. She held out the pig like a proud show-and-tell exhibit. “She needed goodnight kisses.”

“Well, how could anyone sleep without that?” Lori asked. She leaned forward to scratch Piggie’s ear as the piglet snorted happily. “Goodnight, cutie patootie.”

Jace rolled his eyes in full teenage fashion, though the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. “Did you know Mom wallpapered her kennel in the laundry room? It might be nicer than mine.”

Beckett grinned. “Yes, well, your room looks more like a pigsty than Piggie’s, so that makes sense.”

Junie dissolved into giggles, then put Piggie down on the floor. The piglet’s wet nose sniffed along Lori’s ankles, and she let a delighted laugh loose. Even my grumpy nephew chuckled as he shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket.

I leaned back in my chair, taking in the mess of it all—laughter, noise, Piggie’s squeals, Junie’s wild hair, Beckett’s shit-eating grin—and wondered how I ever thought I preferred quiet nights alone to this.

“Speaking of bedtime”—I stood and stretched—“it’s your turn, kiddo.”

Junie groaned, but she scooped up Piggie and headed down the hall. Beckett and Jace helped Lori up, their voices soft and familiar as they gathered her things and said goodbye. I started clearing the table—cards, chip crumbs, half-empty glasses—while the house quieted around me.

When the door closed behind them and only the hum of the fridge and faint giggles from the laundry room remained, I glanced at my hands resting on the sink full of dishes and smiled to myself.

“Okay,” Junie said as she skipped down the hall toward her bedroom. “I’m ready for bed!”

“Brush your teeth, kid,” I said loud enough she stopped and looked over her shoulder at me with enough sass to tell me her teen years would be a trip.

She rolled her eyes, then went into the bathroom first. I went into my room to change from my usual jeans into a pair of gym shorts and an old Storm tee, then followed her to her bedroom.

Junie’s room had a faint purple glow, the star projector she loved painting constellations across the ceiling. Tiny galaxies spun above the bed she’d filled with stuffed animals, books, and one very smug pig-shaped pillow Stevie found for her.

“Alright, kiddo.” I leaned against the doorway. “Did you brush your teeth?”

She nodded, glasses on her nightstand now, then pointed to the farm animal encyclopedia we’d gotten from the library. “Did you know pigs dream when they feel safe? All day today, I watched Piggie nap to see if I could tell. She’s very twitchy, so I think it’s true.”

I smiled, crossing the room to sit on the edge of her bed. “Sounds like you’re doing a great job then. She must be happy here.”

Junie climbed under the blankets, her shoulders slumped more than before. “Maybe. I think she misses her mom sometimes, though.”

My throat worked as I tried to find the right words. “Yeah,” I said. “I bet she does. Maybe she always will, and that’s okay.”

She was quiet for a long time, tracing a little pattern on her blanket. “What happens to people when they die?”

That one hit square in the chest.

I rubbed the back of my neck, watching the stars crawl across her ceiling. “I don’t know for sure,” I said. “Some people think they go to heaven. Some people think they’re still around us in ways we can’t see. But”—I pointed to the bright scatter of lights above us—“I like to imagine they turn into stars. That way, when we look up, we can still find them.”

Junie tilted her head back, eyes reflecting the twinkling starlight. “Do you think my mom’s up there?”

“Yeah,” I said, the word coming out rougher than I meant. “Yeah, kiddo. I think she’s shining pretty bright.”

She scooted over and patted the pillow beside her. “Will you look with me?”

I hesitated for a moment, then lay down on top of the covers, careful not to jostle the mountain of mascots Junie had neatly arranged. Rowdy curled up on the rug, and for a while, we just breathed—two heartbeats syncing under a galaxy of blinking stars.